Make it through

Josh has been gone for three weeks... and yet I still expect him to walk through the door any minute. I  roll over in bed to drape my arm over his wall of a shoulder only to have it flop down. I catch wiffs of the smell of his soap in the shower. I see him all around in hats lined up on the shelf, his grill out the window, his car in the driveway, his badge on the table. Yet he isn't here. I keep trying to make it through it, and yet what am I trying to make it through to. In the past I'd hold on strong to make it through the days he was gone at conference. Make it through until he came home in the wee morning from work. Make it through until we were together again.  What am I making it through to now? He isn't coming back through that door. He isn't going to be there in the morning when I wake up. He isn't  going to make me laugh or hug me or love me again.  So instead I bury my head in his smelly shirt, feeling the softness against my face wishing he was actually there to hold me instead of me holding it, begging God to hold me in the midst.